


A murmuration of starlings

by SpaceBetweenHeartbeats



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Cunnilingus, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, F/M, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hand Jobs, Penis In Vagina Sex, Smut, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:08:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29533851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceBetweenHeartbeats/pseuds/SpaceBetweenHeartbeats
Summary: Geralt knows his time runs short, for the starlings always herald new beginnings and old endings but deep in the frozen marshes he finds that the hearts of men are not always as fickle as he once believed...... all aboard the smutty angst train, all 6213 words of it. First time writing Geralt, if this is your cup of tea let me know, feedback and comments appreciated.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Female Character(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 46





	A murmuration of starlings

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the lovely @sometimesiwrite on Tumblr. Check out her works. They are beautiful.

Roach and Jaskier are gone, gods know where, and it's getting harder to keep moving forward but move he must. 

There's nothing but an endless horizon ahead and the weak sun is slipping lower as twilight spreads its fingers through the tangled reed beds. He stumbles with a curse, the ground ever shifting underfoot, sedge tussocks winding around leaden legs. 

Sweat prickles at the nape of his neck, his mouth dry, and breath little more than a ragged gasp into the frigid twilight. 

_Eskel would never have been caught out like this, no, his brother would have been more cautious. Not for him a rash encounter such as this_. The blood is running thick and hot through his fingers' fruitless efforts to staunch the flow, as the slow thrum of his pulse briefly quickens, a final flicker of the candle before the darkness engulfs him. 

There's an abandoned skiff amongst the reeds, worn and half rotten but _gods he is so tired._ Otter spraints tell of rich pickings to be had in the shallows but his hunger has fled, a thief in the night. Folding his massive frame in the boat he tilts his head back, greets the darkening skies with the upturned tilt of a now glassy gaze. _So much pain now, did old Vesemir feel like this when he breathed his last?_

The cold is settling in his bones, breath sharp beneath his ribs, paring him back to the very marrow. He pulls his cloak over himself for a blanket, ready to die like a dog, and curls into himself, bites his lip to stifle curses. The wounds are manifold, some beginning to suppurate, the sweet stench of decay filling his nostrils. 

_Why does death take so long? Time moves so slowly._

He bows his head, drops his gaze to the flaking paint on the inner hull of the boat and tries to meditate as he was taught so many decades ago in the draughty keep at Kaer Morhen. But focus is fleeting. He cannot centre himself and he is almost comically large for the small vessel. His hand pushes against the hull of the boat, as he tries to adjust his position. There's an item wedged beneath the paddle of a roughly hewn oar, a book, he hadn't noticed it before. 

_Hmmm._

_A fucking romance novel. Breathing his last in a frozen, sodden marshland on the edge of bumfuck nowhere and this,_ **_this_ ** _is the last thing he'll likely read before he becomes just another dead mutant._

_Oh to live a charmed life as one kissed by fair fortune, such as these handsome knights and blushing maidens._

_Free from the taint of shame, no wary stares or muffled gasps, no furtive pleasures stolen from his own hand._

The pages are thin and well thumbed, the gilded title faded and the leather spine cracked. A flowing script marks the owner's name. 

He speaks the name aloud, winces at the sounds his mouth makes around the shape of the words, his voice hoarse from disuse. 

A murmuration of starlings takes flight from the edge of the marshlands, looping and swirling against the violet skies of the late winter afternoon. 

There's magic in the way they move, older than music this dance of theirs. Time was, the older folk would say they were omens that they could carry the soul to the lands beyond the mortal realm but now the ways of men have changed and there is no room for the sacred in this world. 

.... 

The light is fading fast and the air is brittle in your lungs as you hurry on aching limbs towards the warmth of the cottage, hair wild with the northern winds, fish in hand and pockets damp and brimming with seaweed. The book lies abandoned in your reed bed hiding place, forgotten amongst the rush to return home, so unlike you to forget such treasure. 

It had been a pleasant day, checking the creels, bobbing with the ebb and flow of the tides that lapped at the flattened hull of the old boat. You had allowed yourself to come unmoored and drift amongst the fantasy of courtly love and gallant warriors. 

_Aye, there's the joke, they don't write books about women like you._ There is no glorious lineage, no exalted ancestry to be had here. Just you, a child of the mud and tides, now to womanhood grown and unfettered by the weight of traditional expectations. No suitors court you, no bards sing of your wide hips or sharp mind to those princes in their palaces or the common folk in dirty, crowded taverns. 

The skies are darkening, rising mist and frost making the ground treacherous underfoot. _Best get back, before the evening tides._ A sudden scatter of birds startles you, the basket drops from your arm as you turn to see them take flight. They are both blessing and curse, the heralds of new beginnings and old endings. Another lifetime and you might have gone to investigate, but such days have fled with the first flush of your youth and the long nights bring their own terrors to the salt marshes. 

The wind has dropped and it's so still, just you, alone with the sound of the birds, the faint wash of weak sunlight sliding beneath the horizon. You tilt your face to greet the skies and just for a fleeting second, you could swear you hear the sound of your name amongst the starlings' cries. 

_I never was raised a coward, but I am no fool either, best press on._

And yet, there it is, the low groan of a wounded animal or perhaps a stranded traveller. 

The pearl knife handle is slippery in your hand as you wind your way through the grasses, heart beating a steady tattoo.

_Turn back, leave whatever this is to the Fates._

Another whisper half swallowed by the air followed by a string of muffled curses cuts through the stillness. Picking your way carefully through the gathering mist, you make your way back to the water. 

There is a figure huddled in the rotten carcass of an old boat, half hidden in shadow, obscured by a torn and mudstained cloak, your book clutched to it's breast. 

The figure does not move, it is almost serene, full lips slightly parted but blue with cold, form a static prayer, its eyes closed as if sleeping. 

You step a little closer. 

Dark leather, skin pale as bone and a spill of milk white hair, matted and tangled peeps out from beneath the cloak. 

Your blood roars in your ears, a rising tide of panic swells in your breast, a low ripple of chill skitters across your skin, puckering your skin into goose flesh. 

Closer, closer still you creep. 

There is no rise and fall to their chest, no soft huffs of exhaled air to give signs of life and yet it makes you uneasy. 

_Perhaps if I could just…_

Eyes flicker open, as if the figure was merely resting, a dangerous conceit, and you chide yourself for your foolishness. The knife slips from your grasp, arcing and clattering to the frigid ground and the air steals the breath from your throat. 

_Those are not the eyes of an ordinary man_

A wave of pain blooms in your chest and you make the thin squeak of prey as a large bloodstained hand grasps your wrist and twin rings of burnished gold both sublime and terrible meet your gaze. 

_You know those eyes._

Only the gods know how you regain your voice, it sounds foreign to your ears, weak and small. 

"Are you hurt.. Witcher? You are injured, tired and cold. Will you not rest awhile by my hearth?" 

A slow, calculated blink, as he regards you warily for several moments 'til in a voice like smoke and shifting gravel he replies, 

"Leave me. Let me die in peace."

_He is big, he will attract predators . There are still plenty of drowned dead in these parts willing to take down an injured witcher. They will smell him, they will bring trouble to your door._

You see at once, all too clearly, that he can smell your rising panic. He drops your wrist and you cradle it to your chest, watching the slow creep of inky bruises start to form. 

His reply is curt, face waxed heavy with pain. 

"I need no help." 

_It is not safe. It is not safe._

It seems to you the time for subterfuge has passed, perhaps a different tack. 

"You are bleeding, you will attract the drowned dead and I'll not have you bring evil to my door". 

He laughs bitterly, pats the silver sword by his side. 

_Gods must I always be subjected to the fear and curiosity of humans?_

"I _am_ the evil at your door, woman. Take your curiosity and leave me be" 

The display of bravado is too much for him and he lets out a quiet groan. This is why he has come to hate the ways of men, he is an aberration of nature to them, they need him and yet they revile him; to them he is little more than a creature to be viewed with a mixture of morbid fascination and contempt. 

You turn as if to go but think better of it, rounding on your heel with an accusatory gesture.

"Is that my book? You can fucking well die out here for all I care but I want my book back!" 

The corner of his mouth lifts in amusement, 

"Hmmm. So you are the type that reads this dross?" 

"Looks like you were making a decent fist of reading it yourself Witcher, those aren't my bloody fingerprints on the pages. Now will you give it back or must I take it from you?" 

He ponders this for a minute before inclining his head in a respectful bow, offering up the tattered pages with his free hand. 

"Apologies, my lady. Please take your book" 

_Ha! That'll show him, the arrogant prick._

And yet there's a small voice that tugs at your conscience, prickling under your skin, _he looks so beaten down, so very tired…_

He shifts his weight, leans forward. Even sat down, he's an impressive size. There's no way you could drag him anywhere 

"You are injured, let me help you… _please"_

It was the _please_ that caught his attention, a small word so rarely used except when accompanied by hollow promises of payment for services rendered. 

_How often had someone begged to help him rather than the other way around? Fuck_. 

It seems that the gods still smile on you and he complies with the ill grace of a stubborn mule. 

_She's bold_ , he thinks, _her dark eyes sly and cunning one minute then open faced and innocent the next._ _… something of the minx in this one. So what if she wants to take me home with her?_ _May as well die in a warm bed as frozen marsh._

He is so very tall, and _sweet Melitele is he heavy_. Oh he tries to help, tries not to lean his heft on you but in the end his endeavours are no more use than tits on a bull and your muscles burn with the effort of keeping him upright. 

He's still bleeding but he can make out a light glowing faintly in the distance, barely discernible beneath the rising tendrils of freezing mist. The pulse of lantern light is faint yet warm, it promises sanctuary and perhaps the chance to prove Vesemir wrong, that witchers can and do sometimes die in warm beds. 

The moon should be almost up by now, not that anyone can see, but you smell the copper tang of the witcher's blood dripping in wine-dark trails on the silvered ground and you are exhausted by the time you reach the wind warped shack that serves as your dwelling. 

The door is stiff, the wood swollen with moisture and you stumble in together. The scent of beeswax and dried herbs fills the small cottage, little more than a 3 room wooden shack but cosy and warm and it seems to Geralt that were he to die anywhere, it might as well be here. 

The soft hush of your home seems to soothe him and he leans against the wall, his eyes sweeping over the eccentric jumble of small treasures that fill your dwelling. Thick woven blankets in bright colours; an ornate lantern, cracked, the warm patina greenish in the soft candlelight; seaglass worn smooth with the changing tides and shells pinker than a newborn babe's ear. A small mirror near the door, spotted with age, reflects a stranger's face back to him.

You half drag him closer to the hearth, pulling out a makeshift pallet for him to lie on. Moving with brisk efficiency, you gather water and build the fire, muttering obscenities as the tinderbox fails to strike and light the driftwood in the hearth. The witcher says nothing but makes a sign with his fingers and the fire roars to life. 

He watches you beneath heavy lidded eyes, blinks lazily as you scuttle to and fro, listening no doubt to the drum of your heartbeat above the slow grind of the pestle in the smooth hollow of the bowl. 

"Drink this." 

He takes the proffered cup, swallows and grimaces. 

"What the fuck is this? What kind of healer are you?" 

Irritation flickers across your face, 

"No, I never said that I was. It's the strongest alcohol I could find in the house and you're welcome by the way." 

"Tastes like shit" 

_Charming._

"Well it's all the pain relief I have so it will have to do. I think we'd better clean you up and take care of these hmm?" 

You gesture at the slash on the chest piece of his armour and the dark blood welling beneath his fingertips. 

_She's trying. Gods man, give her a break._

The pot over the fire is heavy, you list slightly as you make to lift it but he nudges you out of the way and sets it down on the thick slate hearth as if it were no more than a child's plaything. 

You kneel beside him, peeling back the carapace of his leather armour with numb fingers, the clink of buckles and the hiss and spit of the fire magnified by the growing silence between you. 

_Sweet mother, he stinks like a midden._

The witcher's undershirt is worn but well made, the many tiny repairs neat and meticulous. He cannot seem to lift the stained fabric over his head. Face creasing in pain, he makes little noise but the sharp intake of breath draws your eyes to his shoulder, swollen and out of joint, hanging slack at his side.

"Lean back against the wall, I'll have to set your shoulder. Do you want something to bite down on?" 

He shakes his head but takes another swig at the cup of rough alcohol for good measure, bracing himself for the inevitable pain. 

But it doesn't come, instead Geralt can only feel the press of your fingertips, massaging his bicep,slowly and patiently until his shoulder slips smoothly back into the joint as though it had never been out of place. You set to work, teasing his filthy shirt off and fashioning a sling for him from an old strip of linen. 

You press him back towards the pallet and he finds himself drawn to the movement of your hands, all long fingers and authority, wondering at your rash kindness. 

The water is as hot as you can stand, tendrils of steam rising and curling into wisps around your face, dampening your brow and pulling your hair into curls. You plunge your chapped hands into the hot water and you set to work lathering a clean rag with a thin cake of lavender soap. You clean him as tenderly as you know how, paying close attention to the frayed edges of flesh that bisect his abdomen, watching the shadows that play across the cut of his hip. 

You catch his eye and he tries to breathe quietly but the tell tale flare of muscles in his neck betray him. There's a thin sheen of sweat pooling along his collarbone and he winces as you clean and stitch the long gash. 

_Be brave_ you say in the small dark recesses of your heart but your mouth stays mute. 

The stitches are clumsy and workmanlike, but they hold true. The bleeding has stopped although his pallor still resembles the bleached bones of gulls that wash up along the shore. 

A myriad of scars across his torso render him more beast than man. The cicatrice that snakes across his left hip, puckered and raw, speaks of a man unused to tenderness. You forget yourself, fingertip tracing the line of the scar as it dips towards his pubis and he huffs softly and stills your hand with his own. 

You have made a harlot of yourself it seems. Shame curls you in on yourself and you cast your eyes down to your boots. He sits up, pulls your face down towards his own, nostrils flaring slightly. 

He is bold with his gaze, lets his eyes rove over the swell of your bodice, watches the flush creep along the skin of your throat until you blush pink to the tips of your ears before dropping your hand. Clearing your throat, you turn and busy yourself with applying salve and bandaging his wounds as the silence between you lengthens and congeals with the evening shadows. 

You prepare a meal for the both of you. He eats little, says even less but offers his name in place of thanks. His name sounds strange on your tongue and you roll it around your mouth. He lets out a huff of amusement, gold eyes crinkling and you catch a glimpse of the boy superimposed on the man. 

You chatter, looking to fill the awkwardness bustling around but he turns his face away, towards the fire and closes his eyes. He is a strange treasure to have washed up here on your shores, all black leather and gruff temper with a face carved by the gods themselves. 

The firelight burnishes his pale skin, highlights the soft dark curls of hair that pepper his chest. His body is thickly corded with muscle, no softness or idleness here. His jaw is strong, his teeth are good and in repose he looks almost boyish, his lashes, so long and dark, sweep the crest of his cheekbone. 

How he is still breathing the gods only know, those wounds are deep. It is just as well, you think, that now he skirts the liminal veil between sleep and wakefulness and cannot see the way you appraise him. He sleeps on, wrapped in the furs and blankets of your makeshift bed whilst you retire to a worn chair by the fire. 

Over the coming days he heals faster than any creature has a right to, in spite of your care perhaps rather than as a consequence of it for you never were destined to be a great healer. 

He lets you wash the grease and mire from his hair, permitting himself the luxury of a bath by the fire. Taking an old boxwood comb, you tease the tangles out one by one. His eyes never leave your face and you bloom under the weight of his sunlit gaze. He has you at a disadvantage, it would seem. The room is smaller in every way with him in it, he may as well be the sun, and you pulled into his orbit. At night, you press your face into the pillow as you work yourself with deft fingers, slipping into dreamless sleep, a trickle of slick running down your soft thighs. 

If he notices the gentle blush that creeps up the hollow of your throat as he brushes past you, he doesn't say, only the briefest twitch of the fingers at his side serve as acknowledgement of your presence. In unguarded moments he carries the weight of a thousand cares in his eyes and your heart softens for this solitary creature, so starved of tenderness. 

He eats what you make without complaint, helps you mend the creels and nets, sits in companionable silence with you after the day's work is done. He listens as you hum the songs of your mother's people, lets his hands brush yours as you pass him a mug of ale, each contact sending a thousand tiny sparks through your skin.

…. _And if your fingertips linger a little too long on the muscles of his abdomen every time you dress his wounds what of it?_

For his part, he cannot remember the last time he knew a gentle touch; he feels his breathing slow and leans his head back as you tend to him, exposing his thick white throat, eyes fluttering shut. But too soon your touch disappears as swiftly as a summer squall. 

No matter how long he lives, he'll never understand the ways of men, their emotions slip like quicksilver through his fingers. You are resilient, living alone in this damp _and inhospitable landscape_ , he thinks, as he watches you mending the nets, humming the lilting songs of the coast. Each morn he hears you stir before dawn to take the catch to market, greeting him on your return with small smiles and wry good humour. 

_Yes, you are bold and kind, solicitous in your care in spite of your meagre resources._ He feels himself grow stronger by the day, his appetite now threatening to eat you out of house and home. He offers what little coin he has and insists you take some for your troubles but you shake your head and smile sweet and slow. A fine web of companionship has been spun between you, delicate yet strong.

_Why then do you blush like a greening maid as soon as he leans closer than he means to?_

"I am near healed," he says one night, after the candles have burned low. "I'll take my leave at sunrise."

In truth, his words weigh heavy on you. You have grown used to his presence, an unexpected luxury now plucked from your grasp and the ale turns to bile in your mouth. Though you knew this day would come. You turn back to the nets, the air suddenly too thick with words left unspoken. 

He lets out a low grunt, takes your hand, pressing his lips to your knuckles, all stubble and plush lips; it is a gallant gesture and you dip a mock curtsey, low enough for him to take in the swell of your breasts beneath the bodice of your dress. 

_Don't start something you won't finish woman._

"My brave knight, what can I offer you in return for such chivalry?" you say, a sad smile playing at the corner of your lips. 

_Always with the doe eyes_ he thinks as he feels the familiar twitch in his braies, his knuckles whitening as they grip the edge of the table. 

_How many times had he lain on the pallet by the fire and heard your soft gasps in the next room, tortured by the heady scent of your arousal?_

"I would taste you," he says, and the wickedness drips honey-slow from his words.

His eyes narrow as he searches your face, perhaps looking for a trace of the disquiet that had marred your features that day out on the frozen marshes. Finding none, he pulls you on to his lap as though you were nought but a tavern wench. 

In truth you like it. 

"Look at me", he says softly as he tilts your chin up and devours you in the heat of his gaze. 

_There it is_ , the suffusion of heat that floods your cheeks makes his pupils blow black and wide, sunlit copper eclipsed. 

The kiss when it comes is a gentle ask, the unhurried pressure of his full lips and the rasp of his stubble as he licks oh so gently into your mouth. Such sweetness is unexpected, his mouth is ripe and luscious and you drink steadily from his lips, breaking away with a contented sigh. 

"Is it what you expected? Have I satisfied your curiosity?" 

But you ever were a greedy creature and you demand your due with a sharp tug of his hair. There's a flicker of something dark that sweeps his countenance and he sates your avarice with an intensity that leaves you swollen-lipped and breathless. You squirm, wriggling in his lap, the swell of his cock firm against your core as he laves at your pulse point, tasting the salt on your skin, occasionally grazing the soft flesh at the juncture of your neck with sharp white teeth. 

"You talk too much", you say, and he huffs out a quiet laugh, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips as calloused fingers, burrow beneath your skirts, tugging on the ribbons that tie your woollen stockings. He pulls your small clothes to the side and slides a thick finger through the slick that pools at the apex of your thighs before rubbing languid circles over your clit until you ache with the sheer want of it. You paw at his chest like a cat and he chuckles, the usual grit of his baritone softened to warm velvet. 

"Patience, love. I want you ready." 

Too soon, he withdraws and you whine at the loss of him but all protests melt into the long evening shadows as he hoists you aloft in his arms and carries you to the bed. 

Rolling up his sleeves to expose thickly muscled pale forearms, he rearranges you, lifting your skirts, nosing at the seam of your cunt and _inhales_ before pressing a chaste kiss to its soft mound of curls. 

_Gods if ever you could burst into flames, it would be now._

But he consumes you, one hand splayed across your belly, scarred knuckles blanched paler still with effort of keeping you anchored to the bed as he suckles at your clit, sending sparks through your veins. 

_Fuck_

He savours each inch of flesh revealed to him, a starving man at a banquet. A thick finger gently breaches your folds, pushes in to the second knuckle, curling and brushing the ridge of flesh inside you that buckles your knees and makes you see stars. He works you slowly, relentlessly then adds a second, teasing, pausing to let you get used to the slow sweet stretch before pumping it in and out. You grind against the heel of his palm flailing and gasping his name to the gods. 

You burst with the sweetness of a ripe plum in his mouth and his low hum of appreciation blooms fresh embarrassment on your cheeks. But he pays no mind to the flash of heat that floods your face, preferring instead to mouth kisses along the meat of your thighs. 

You weave your fingers through hair brighter than hoar frost and gently tug to better raise his slick covered face to your own. He growls, low and dark, a rumble of thunder before the storm and you suppress a smile. 

Eyes heavy-lidded, he pulls at your thin chemise with greedy fingertips, capturing your nipple and pinching. And you yelp, yet stay, sway-hipped and eager under his glamour as you taste the rich, heady fruits of your arousal on his lips. 

A palm to his breeches makes him shiver and moan into the damp heat of your mouth. _Gods but he is well-favoured_ you think as he swells and twitches beneath your hand. 

But he is shrewd, this Witcher-man, knows that the sweetest honey takes time in the making. Cupping his hand around your head, he pulls you closer, breath ghosting over the shell of your ear as he murmurs endearments against your hair. 

He captures your nipple with the fullest of lips and suckles at your breast, nipping and teasing until your nerve endings are fizzing and you are moaning and pulling at the hem of his shirt, almost ripping it in your haste to divest him of his clothing. 

He takes pity on you, slipping the worn cloth over his head, exposing the thick lines of his stubbled jaw and long white throat. The rippling musculature of his chest dusted with dark hairs is as familiar to you as your own hand by now, yet each scar blooms anew in the low firelight. You make to sit up, to map each scar with questing fingertips but he pushes you gently back into the mattress. 

"Stay, woman." 

He slips himself free of his breeches, lazily palming his cock beneath his braies as you watch with wide eyes, a low shiver rippling through your core. Perhaps sensing your apprehension, he appraises you with a shrewd look,

"Don't fret, I'll not put a child in you. All witchers are unmanned. If you want me to pleasure you in other ways I will, or I can stop. It's all one and the same to me" 

You open your mouth to protest, to assure him of your feelings, but the words don't come. You settle instead for curling your fingers around the velvet of his cock, marvelling at the weight of it in your palm, running an errant thumb over the small pearl of pre come that beads at its tip as he hisses between clenched teeth, 

"Gods, keep that up woman and I'll come in your fucking hand." 

You pump him torturously slow, each twitch of that heavy veined cock, sending a powerful thrill through you as he fists the sheets, lifting his hips to better thrust into your hand. His breathing is harsh, pupils blown dark and wide and you are intoxicated by the sight of him, arching and writhing beneath your hand. His eyes flutter shut as you reach up to cup the side of his face, wiping away a stray eyelash with your thumb and he _leans_ into your touch. He comes with a throaty roar, spilling himself into the heat of your hand, a string of curses flying from those plush pink lips. 

The taste of him is tart and salt on your tongue as you take your fingers to your mouth, the pink tip of your tongue darting out as you lick each one clean in turn. The room is quiet, save for the crackle and spit of the fire and the shift of embers in the hearth.

Geralt watches you, eyes dark, mouth quirked into a crooked grin, all amusement and sharp white teeth. He moves swiftly, viper quick he flips you on to your back and you squeal, the soft peals of your laughter ringing through the hush. He cradles you beneath him, raining down kisses so fierce that they devour you and leave you boneless, gasping into his mouth. In truth, you are long gone by the time he knees your legs apart and rubs his cock along your cleft, gathering your slick, spreading you wide with warm strong hands. 

Slowly, you take him, inch by inch, the pliant yield of your flesh a sharp contrast to the hard planes and angles of his body. He enters you to the hilt and you gasp at the intrusion, the war drums of your heartbeat loud in your ears. You sheathe him well, his sac flush against your core, your cunt heavy and full with the sweet stretch of his cock. One heartbeat, two and he begins to move. 

His lips curve against the delicate skin of your neck whilst his blunt fingers thread their way through the damp curls and wet folds of your sex, before teasing your clit. He sets an almost languid pace, as if he had all the time in the world and not a few precious hours before dawn. 

_Sweet Melitele but he's good_ , you shiver and ache with each roll and snap of his hips, his amber gaze never leaving yours, as though he would sear your image into his mind's eye. He plays a symphony with your body, your moans sweeter than birdsong in his ears, each breathy cry more plaintive than the last.

The delicious grind of your clit on the rough thatch of his pubic hair has you keening into his chest, so when he feels you, ever greedy, cant your hips, he lifts your leg to his shoulder, pausing to admire you spread out before him _and oh gods it's too much._

You can feel _everything, and gods, you are full._ The steady pressure of his calloused thumb returns to your clit, each loop and swirl tightening the coil nestled in the depths of your belly, and the air grows heavy between you as you watch in dumb fascination the joining of your bodies. 

He is breathing heavily now, soft groans punctuating the slap of skin on skin and you watch a solitary bead of sweat meander down his neck and gather in the hollow of his pale throat. His medallion bounces against the skin of his chest the glint of silver sending flashes of light through the darkened room, a canopy of tiny stars and he the moon that draws the tides. 

His cock is so thick that you can scarcely breathe with each deep stroke, content to immerse yourself in each writhe and twitch of pleasure that swells and unspools within you. The undertow of orgasm is swift and brutal, mouth open in a wordless cry you shudder through the rising tide of your release as the world drops away and there is naught save the rippling clench of your cunt and the sweaty press of his body against yours. He comes with a broken gasp but a heartbeat later, this witcher man, flooding your walls with his spend. White hair unbound spills in damp strands across the pillow, and he winds around you, nuzzles into your neck. 

The thin fingered dawn peeps through the shutters, spills over your hair infusing it with a soft gold. He watches the steady rise and fall of your chest as you sleep, the small frown that usually creases your forehead, worn smooth in repose. He noses your hair, inhaling the faint lavender of your soap. The cries of the gulls are loud in his ears, he does not want to go but leave he must. He knows it is easier this way. 

Impervious to the chill, he had left his shirt off in the night and wrapped himself around your body, spine curved like an ammonite, your head resting beneath his chin, and his heart tightens in his chest as he remembers the soft mutters in the darkness, the teasing promise of a different life that carved an echo into his very bones. 

"We could go together," you had said, "move away, farm the land. We could have a life." 

You are all earnestness, those wide eyes unblinking, so he presses kisses to your lips, rests his forehead against your own and smashes you into a thousand tiny pieces with a single word. _A kindness_ , he thinks, for witchers were not made to love. 

When you wake, he is gone, little more than a few long silver hairs left on the pillow that still smells faintly of him, the outline of his form lingering in the sheets. 

And so the years wear on, lines writ large across the vellum of your skin, hair bone white and you grieve for the loss of him, this creature of stardust and dark matter. Each night you leave the lantern burning long into the night while you mend your nets. He never comes. Perhaps you knew, deep in your marrow that he never would, that such joys were not meant for you, not a princess but a wretch, cast adrift in a kingdom of mud and tides. 

Oh there's been times when he thought about returning to the pleasures of your bed, many a night he's closed his eyes and felt the warmth of your smile on his face and felt a ripple of longing for the sound of your rich laughter, as familiar to him now as his own shadow. Those nights he dreams of a woman with hair like the sun, gently chastising him as he breathes his last beneath sullen skies. 

He remembers a day like this so long ago, before the world left its mark on him and his breast aches with the memory sharp as Yule frost. How many years has it been since he stumbled into your boat content to end his days in a freezing marsh? 

He thinks of you more often than he cares to admit but he does not know love, oh he's heard the word, but he knows better than to trust the hearts of men, for Fate is a fickle, slippery creature and even the truest human hearts grow inconstant with the passage of time. 

He casts his eyes to the horizon to a wind warped shack and feels the familiar tug in his breast. The lantern glows, albeit faintly and flickers, once, twice and then no more. And somewhere in the fading winter light a murmuration of starlings takes flight.


End file.
